


Ridiculous

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Barrow Downs, First Time, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Tom Bombadil rescues the hobbits from the barrow-wight, repressed feelings make themselves known. Insistently...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ridiculous

**Author's Note:**

> In canon, only the 3 who ended up under the sword wore the cold rags, and it doesn't actually say that they followed Tom's instructions about shedding them. As far as I gather, Frodo kept his clothes on, but that's no fun, so this assumes that he lost his own and wasn't given the stylish replacement.

"Run naked on the grass," Bombadil had advised. That was fine for the others—they had the choice. They weren't already naked, as he was. The thin, cold rags did at least cover the essentials, and hobbits weren't given to cavorting about in the altogether, whatever Tom might say. 

This was ridiculous. He was still shivering from the terror of the Barrow and yet his flesh was heating rapidly in rather specific places. Rebelling far too enthusiastically as it did in the dreams he'd been having for so long now. Running about _anywhere_ wasn't really an option when in this condition. He rolled carefully onto his stomach to conceal his state of... mind. 

It was the relief, he told himself. Reaction... The exhilaration of escaping from—his mind sheered away from the memory of the cold glow, of three hobbits with a long naked sword across their necks. He'd almost lost them. He'd almost left them. How could he have left them? How could he have abandoned his kin? _And Sam?_

"You all right, Mr Frodo?" He must have made some sound, for Sam was suddenly there beside him, careful not to keep the sun from his master's body. 

"I'm fine, Sam, thank you." Frodo raised his head. 

Sam should have looked ridiculous, standing there in a ragged white tunic—almost a dress—but he didn't. In the blessed sunlight, he shone with goodness and energy and life, and was all the things the wight had wanted to take. Frodo closed his eyes to the remembered grief of that sword, of his own near treachery then, and his treacherous flesh now. He had nearly lost them. He had nearly lost Sam—Sam who was warmth and light and beauty. And safe, for now, thanks to Tom. 

Merry and Pippin were cart-wheeling their arms and kicking up their legs like idiots, egging each other on. Frodo shook his head at their antics 

"C'mon, Frodo! Tom said to run." Pip danced about, his arms blurring windmills around his head. "I bet if we went up that hill, we could see where Tom's gone off to. I hope he brings back the food!" And he whirled away, Merry behind him, both prancing, laughing and calling down the hill, as though they hadn't just... Frodo wasn't sure how they could be so blithe after such terror. A different reaction? On balance, he'd rather feel like that than... 

The sunlight warmed his back and might lull his nagging flesh. Sam was sitting just to one side of him now. He could feel it without looking. There was a glow from Sam that had nothing to do with sunlight or barrow-wight. 

"Mr Frodo?" His voice was a croak. He at least must be remembering the horror inside the barrow. 

What had he done, hauling Sam away from the safety of the Shire into perils that he was sure even Gandalf had never foreseen? They'd looked for Riders following them, nerves on edge for the eerie wail that had stalked fingers of fear down their backs. But that a mist could beguile them into a trap, that the wight should ensnare them—these were dangers they hadn't known to look for. Like the Old Forest... He shivered. 

"You're cold, Mr Frodo. Don't you think you should do what Mr Bombadil said?" Sam's voice still sounded strange. 

"No, I—” _daren't get up because of what you would see, what you would think of me_ —“I think I'll just lie here until Tom comes back. The sun is warm and I'm a little tired." 

"Course you are! Goodness only knows what would have come of us if you hadn't kept awake. I don't rightly remember much of it myself, just being very cold and everything going away in my mind. But I do know it was you that saved us. You saved us, Mr Frodo!" 

Frodo blushed, for the admiration in Sam's suddenly hoarse voice. "I didn't do anything, it was Tom. His song came into my head, and suddenly there he was. He banished the spell, or whatever it was. I... I couldn't fight those things. I tried—” _when those crawling fingers walked to the sword hilt on your neck, I tried_ —“but I couldn't." _Not even for you._

"We'd be dead, or worse, if it weren't for you." The tone brooked no argument, and Frodo's shiver had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with Sam. 

"You're cold," he repeated, "and there's nothing to cover you with." He looked away as he suggested, "I could give you a bit of a massage, if you'd like? Might get the blood going round and warm you up a bit." 

_If you knew just how warm!_ "I don't think..." 

But Sam was already kneeling by his side, his leg hot against Frodo as he put his hands on his shoulders and began to knead gently. Frodo's mind wandered away to a place where there was nothing but exquisite feeling, and love, and Sam. 

He lay there for as long as he could stand it, but as those warm, tender hands worked down his sides, matters were moving rapidly to the point where they would be beyond his control. He made himself gasp, "Sam! Stop it! Please!" 

Sam stayed his hands, but didn't remove them. He still didn't sound like Sam when he said, "Why, Mr Frodo?" 

Frodo buried his head in his arms and reached for truth. "Because I like it too much," he whispered. 

When it came at last, Sam's voice was also a whisper. "So do I, Mr Frodo." 

"What did…?" Frodo sat up hastily, not caring what Sam might see. No need for words, when Sam was looking at him like that. Not when Sam's hand had been dislodged from his side to where it lay now, where his fingers slid hesitantly... How could a touch so gentle burn like a flame, all the way through him? Oh, this was so much _more_ than dreams—this was real; this was _Sam_ , touching him— _there, yes._

Slow as time, fast as brushfire, they kissed, softly at first, then harder and deeper, as Sam's hand moved now with a sure strength, gathering all of Frodo's want into a starburst which took him from himself and into pleasure beyond any he had known. 

As he gasped and quivered back to the world, Sam's arms held him fast, murmuring words of love and soothing into his hair. Frodo turned his head so that their lips met again, and reached under the ridiculous white dress to take Sam, and Sam bucked against his hand and groaned, spilling want through his fingers—"Too quickly, _meleth_." He kissed him long and lovingly. "I almost lost you, Sam. All I could think of was that I'd never kissed you, never told you that I love you. Next time we will love slowly.”

Sam buried his head in Frodo's shoulder. "Next time?" 

"Oy, you two!" Merry's voice came unwelcome from another world. 

Quick as thought, Sam wrenched grass to clean them, then flipped Frodo back down onto his stomach. He resumed the massage, brisk and impersonal now—pummeling calf muscles lightly, and whistling tunelessly through his teeth as though grooming a pony. Frodo observed the performance with a grin. Sam winked shyly, then concentrated on his hands. 

"Tom's coming—he's got our ponies. Wish he'd hurry up, I'm starving!" 

"When are you ever _not_ starving, Pip?" Merry teased. He noticed Sam's task. "You got cramp, Frodo?" 

"We just thought it might help the blood flow, Mr Merry," said Sam austerely. "Keep him warm, like." 

Frodo choked into his folded arms, and Sam trailed a finger somewhat higher than necessary before rising to his feet to help unload their gear. As he put down Frodo's pack for him to sort out some clothes, Frodo caught his hand, swiftly, while Tom and Merry and Pippin were busy with packs and ponies. "Next time, Sam," he breathed into his palm, with a gentle kiss, then turned to his pack before he lost himself in Sam's eyes. 

Sam didn't feel up to a reply. He dressed quickly, forcing himself to concentrate only on his own clothes; ignoring as best he could, Frodo wriggling into his spare trousers, lest his mind follow the dizzying track of that last whisper. 

"That's better. I think I felt sillier in that dress thing than I would have if I'd ended up like you, Frodo. Don't know how lasses put up with the wind blowing up their skirts!" 

Merry grinned as he fastened his breeches. "Pippin! I think you've got your priorities wrong!" 

Pip was sitting there happily, still in his white rags. He had a piece of cheese in one hand, an apple in the other and was taking alternate bites, eyes closed and an expression of bliss on his face. 

Frodo laughed aloud. "You do look ridiculous!" he said. 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)


End file.
